I have got short hair again.
I love having short hair, and if it were possible to do it without attracting stares, I would probably keep my head shaved. This would save endless boring faffing about with hairdryers and shampoo and conditioner.
I will now be able to dry my hair in less than a minute and it will still look fine even if I don’t bother. Actually that isn’t entirely true. If I don’t dry it, it stands on end and sticks out all over the place, like an astonished hedgehog. The thing is that it is now so short that this will not much matter.
Also I feel splendid, with a thoroughly massaged scalp and hardly any hair trapped uncomfortably in my underwear.
I visited the hairdresser this afternoon, with Oliver in attendance because the hairdresser was just a sideshow attraction, and the actual purpose of the trip was for him to see the orthodontist, the chap with the pliers. Today’s visit was not for the extraction of teeth, but so that they could take a mould of his teeth and decide which ones he can probably do without.
I think that this is savage and am very glad that I have never aspired to beauty. Being ugly results in a less exciting life, but at least it is relatively painless.
We called in at the Town Hall to collect the new taxi plate. This was tedious because they have invented a new reception system. It has obviously been necessary to do this, because the absence of queues in the reception area has been a problem. In all of my taxi-related visits to our humble centre of local government, I have never before had to wait longer than a minute or two.
However, probably because of some convoluted bat-flu related creative thinking, some bright spark has come up with a brainwave, and amalgamated all of the desks into one, being Housing, Council Tax, Benefits, and everything else. This is to replace the previous system where you made an appointment to see somebody and sat and talked to them whilst everything else went on at another desk.
I lost patience after about a minute and a half and went round the back, where I banged on the office door and a sulky secretary came out to tell me that I ought not to be there. I was indifferent to this, and fortunately, after some huffing and puffing, she gave me the taxi paperwork anyway, so after a mere fifteen seconds hanging about I was able to leave them in peace. They could spend the rest of the day catching bat flu from the long and restless queue which had formed whilst some kindly receptionist soul was helping an elderly couple to understand how to complete a form about their rent. They did not seem to have even the smallest grasp of what she was talking about, and one of them seemed to be deaf.
I have crossed Town Hall Receptionist off my list of potential careers.
We went to the tea and coffee shop, and then to Asda.
I do not much like Asda, and we had all of Oliver’s tuck to purchase for next term.
This is because we have got to get everything ready now. When we come back from London we will be setting off almost directly for school, with hardly any time in between to fill up the washing machine.
Obviously these plans depend on there being a) London, and b) school, this latter being considered an optional extra for the modern child.
I am sorry to say that I am not holding my breath for either. The august Daily Telegraph has today told us that since their announcement yesterday, our beloved leaders have now contacted all major retailers by email, and instructed them to prepare for a full lockdown, beginning on the 28th of December.
It appears that the typist stupidly missed off the bit saying ‘if we have any evidence that it is necessary ‘, how jolly careless.
Along with every other parent in the nation, I am dreading the schools closing again. Oliver needs an education.
They all do.
Let us keep hoping…
